Tim Waggoner: Forge of the Mindslayers

As they rounded the bend, a low moan drifted from somewhere ahead of them, and Ghaji recognized the sound of the goblin's voice. The cry was soft and weak, as if the goblin was near death.

Diran started forward, but before the priest could take more than a single step, Ghaji reached out with his free hand and grabbed hold of his friend's elbow.

"It's probably a trap, remember?" the half-orc said.

"I know, but if there's even a chance that it isn't, I must go to the goblin's aid."

Diran's face was mask of grim determination, and Ghaji knew there would be no arguing with him. "Very well then. Let's go."

Diran took off down the passageway at a run, Ghaji at his side, Hinto and Tresslar following close behind.

The tunnel curved twice more-right then left-before opening up into a crudely hewn stone chamber a dozen feet high and a hundred feet across. Hanging from the ceiling was a colony of sleeping bats, each one the size of a small rat-hound. Though it was not yet dark outside, already the bats were stirring, shifting their bodies, stretching out wings, yawning mouths wide to expose sharp fangs. The chamber floor was covered with the creatures' droppings, along with parts of dismembered skeletons, dozens of them-skulls, rib cages, spines, arms, legs, pelvises-most human, some not. The bones protruded from the thick layer of muck created by the bat-droppings. The stench was unbearable, and Ghaji was glad that all they'd had to eat this day was trail rations, for if his stomach had been any fuller, he'd have been forced to empty it now. He wished his elemental axe produced mundane fire instead of magic. If so, the flame might've produced enough smoke to leaven the stink-but then, it might have also ignited some of the gases protruding from the muck.

Rising above the horrid muck in the middle of the chamber sat a large rock about three feet high. The goblin crouched on top, obviously unharmed. He fixed them with a baleful amber-eyed gaze and grinned maliciously.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, but then I suppose I shouldn't complain, should I? For if it wasn't for idiots like you, my mistress and I wouldn't have any fun."

Diran gave no sign that he was upset at having fallen for the goblin's ruse. "I give you fair warning, goblin. I've come to slay the lich that inhabits this lair. If you get in my way, I'll kill you, too." Diran's tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing something of no more import than the weather, and was all the more chilling for it.

The goblin let out a snuffling laugh. "You could try." His form blurred, and orange skin and mismatched scraps of leather armor shifted, melded, and reformed until the creature that crouched atop the rock was no longer a goblin but instead a lupine beast with blue-tinged fur, humanoid hands, and a goblinish face.

"He's a werewolf!" Hinto cried out.

"No," Diran said. "The priests of my order hunted Khorvaire's lycanthropes to extinction many years ago. That creature is a barghest-though it's just as deadly as any lycanthrope and in some ways more so."

The barghest inclined its head as if acknowledging a compliment. "I can't tell you how happy I am that there are four of you." The barghest's voice had become a rumbling growl. "That means my mistress might give me one of you when she's done. It's been so long since I've had a juicy soul to feed upon. So very long." The barghest licked its muzzle with a long black tongue that appeared more serpentine than wolf-like.

"You keep speaking of this mistress of yours," Diran said, "yet aside from your leather-winged friends hanging from the ceiling, you appear to be alone. Only moments ago you attempted to deceive us by pretending to be in danger. Perhaps the lich and her treasure are also part of your deception, nothing more than stories designed to lure prey to you."

The barghest laughed, the sound emerging from its lupine throat as a snuffling whine. "You aren't that fortunate, I'm afraid."

As if in response to some unseen signal, the entire colony of bats released its grip on the ceiling and took flight. The ebon creatures swirled around the chamber, black wings beating wildly as they darted through the fetid air. The four companions held their weapons at the ready, but none of the creatures made a move to attack them. As the bats continued to fly, they began to lose definition, their features becoming smooth and indistinct, their color darkening even further until they were nothing more than patches of deep shadow whipping about the chamber. Then the shadow-fragments came together and coalesced into a single dark form that hovered in the air next to the still-laughing barghest.

Burning orbs of crimson light blazed at them from within hollow eye sockets, and desiccated bone-white lips stretched into a hideous parody of a smile.

"I am Nathifa, and you are trespassing in my home." The lich's voice was cold and whisper-soft, a winter wind blowing across a barren field filled with unmarked graves. "Now your lives belong to me."

Ghaji knew what was coming next, but even so, the knowledge didn't insulate the half-orc from the terror that crashed into him like a frigid wave. Paralyzing fear engulfed him, threatening to force him to his knees and reduce him to a trembling, mewling child, but Ghaji had faced fear more times than he could count-both on the battlefield and off-and if it wasn't exactly an old friend, he knew it well enough not to let it get the better of him. This terror, though, wasn't natural; it was created by the lich's dark magic. The undead fiend was burrowing into their minds, attempting to drive them mad with fear and render them helpless so that she might dispose of them at her leisure, a spider spinning a web of terror to ensnare four hapless flies. Still, he gritted his teeth and fought back the fear with all his strength.

Ghaji heard Hinto cry out as he fell, caught in the grip of the lich's presence. Tresslar held his mystic rod before him, a thin sheen of blue light glimmering around the dragonhead. The artificer's eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he used the magic stored within the dragonwand to attempt to ward off the lich's magic. From the look of it, Tresslar was only having partial success.

Ghaji concentrated on drawing back his fire-axe and hurling it toward the lich. He knew his weapon wouldn't kill the fiend, but a blow from the flaming axe might distract her long enough to allow the four of them to break free of her fear casting. The half-orc's body refused to obey him. Even using the full force of his will, it was all he could do to pull the axe back a couple inches. The lich's power was simply too strong.

Ghaji managed to turn his head just far enough to see Diran drop the dagger he held in his right hand and slowly reach into one of his tunic pockets. The priest's face was contorted with the strain of resisting the lich's fear-spell as his fingers groped for the object within the pocket. His hand closed around the object, and then, as if touching it granted Diran the strength to further resist the lich's power, he pulled it out swiftly and held it out toward the lich. The object was a metallic arrowhead, the symbol of the Order of the Silver Flame.

The lich's crimson-fire eyes narrowed to tiny pinpoints as she looked upon the holy object, and the tatters of black shadow that cloaked her body stirred restlessly as if a sudden wind passed through the chamber.

"Is that the best you can do, priest?" she said, her voice dripping with contempt.

"Not… at… all…" Diran gritted the words through clenched teeth and then closed his eyes. Bright silver light burst forth from the arrowhead and washed over the lich in a brilliant spray of blue-white illumination.

The undead fiend shrieked as the power of the Silver Flame struck her. She spun away from the light, raising an arm of her shadow-cloak to shield herself from its holy power.